


When in Rome

by Thistlerose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Gen Work, Marauders' Era, Scotland, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2005.  James and Sirius wear the wrong colors to a Quidditch match, and live to tell several versions of the tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When in Rome

They'd been seated for approximately five minutes before James found he couldn't contain himself any longer.

"These seats are bloody brilliant!"

"Bloody brilliant!" Sirius echoed breathlessly, as if he too had been struggling to hold back his excitement.

"I've got the best bloody dad in the world!"

"The bloody best!"

"Moony and Wormtail will _die_ of jealousy when we tell them."

"They'll _shrivel_ and _die._ "

"Shame they couldn't come, too."

"No, it isn't."

"You're right. It isn't."

They sat there for a few moments, breathing heavily, beaming stupidly at each other. Around them, other Quidditch fans were shuffling quickly toward their seats and vendors on flying carpets were hawking souvenirs and refreshments. James and Sirius paid no mind.

"We're the luckiest bastards in the entire fucking world," Sirius said at length.

"The bloody luckiest."

"Portree is going to destroy Falmouth."

" _Obliterate_ the bastards."

"They'll still be picking up pieces of the Falcons months from now."

"Maybe we can bring someone's nose back for Moony and Wormtail."

"Someone's knob."

"Would either of those tossers even know what one was if they saw it?"

Sirius threw his head back and laughed. James opened his mouth to say a few more choice words about their absent friends, closed his mouth when a large, heavy hand clapped his shoulder.

"Oi," said a gruff voice behind them. "D'ye mind?" His accent was quite thick.

"The match hasn't even started yet," Sirius informed him irritably. " _Nothing_ 's happening yet."

"That dinna mean I care to listen to yer chatter."

James craned his neck. The man behind them was barrel-chested and grizzled. There was a deep scar across the bridge of his nose and down his left cheek. He did not look pleasant.

"Sorry," James said, and that seemed to be enough. The man huffed a bit, but he released James's shoulder and sat back.

"Fuck," Sirius hissed in James's ear. "We can take him. After the match, I mean. A good hexing—"

James shook his head. 

"Yeah, but—"

"Leave it."

"Fine."

Sirius shifted away from James and glared down into the pitch, arms crossed over his chest.

James sighed. "Looks, it's— Never mind. C'mon, let's get our robes off."

"The match hasn't started yet." Sirius's tone was cold.

"I know, but – it doesn't matter. We paid enough for these things, we ought to show them off as long as we can. Right?"

Sirius shrugged noncommittally, but he followed suit when James started to pull his robe over his head.

"Bit drafty," Sirius remarked a moment later when their robes were bunched up under their seats. He smoothed the kilt over his thighs. "These're shorter than I remember. Did you…?"

"I didn't do a damn thing," James said, holding his legs tightly together. "It's just your imagination. I think we look good."

"I think so too. And look – we're not the only ones in kilts. I wonder which clan theirs are."

"MacDonald," said the gruff voice behind them. "Portree is on the Isle of Skye, an' Skye is home to the MacDonald clan."

James rolled his eyes at Sirius.

"We know where Portree is, all right?" said Sirius, turning around. "Leave us the fuck alone."

James turned too and blinked when he saw that the man's eyes were narrowed, his mouth twisted in a grim smile. 

"I'm no' surprised ye do," the man conceded pleasantly. "But I wonder if ye know the name o' the clan whose tartan _ye_ happen to be wearin'?"

"Of course we do," said Sirius. "Campbell. Why?"

"How old are the pair 'o ye?" the man inquired.

"Sixteen," James said, worry suddenly pinching his stomach. "Why?"

"A shame," the man said, fingering his wand. "For ye, that is. If ye were seventeen, ye'd be able to Apparate out o' here."

*

"So, we had to _run_ ," Sirius recounted to Peter and Remus some days later. "Over all those bloody seats, with the wind raising our kilts— He _made_ it windy, the bastard. We were just—"

"Flapping in the breeze?" asked Remus sweetly.

Sirius shot him a supremely ugly look, and James resumed the telling.

"Apparently," he said, "there's some sort of feud going on between the Campbells and MacDonalds."

"There has been, since 1692," Remus said. "The Campbells slaughtered the MacDonalds. After the MacDonalds treated them like guests. They _were_ guests. It was a massacre. At Glencoe, they—"

"Yes, yes, we know that _now_ ," James said, waving aside the rest of Remus's lecture.

"We could've told you," Peter put in. "If you'd asked. But I thought everyone knew about that. It's history."

" _Muggle_ history," Sirius snorted.

"So, you ran away," said Remus. "With your kilts flying up. And your knobs flapping in the breeze." He smacked his forehead. "Wormtail - _that_ was that laughter we heard!"

Sirius seized a pillow from his bed and hit Remus with it.

"Shame about the game," Peter offered while Sirius pummeled Remus.

"We were lucky to get away with our _lives_ ," confided James and had the satisfaction of seeing Peter's eyes widen until they were round as Galleons. "All right, you." He grabbed Sirius by the back of his jumper and hauled him off Remus, who was facedown on his bed, shielding his head with his arms. "Time for us to be off."

"Off where?" Peter asked, but James didn't answer.

 

"Where are we off to?" Sirius asked as he jogged along beside James. 

"Here." James grabbed Sirius's arm and steered him round a bend in the corridor. There was an alcove there, into which they ducked. 

"All right," James said. "We told them what happened – more or less. Reckon that broke the curse?"

"Why don't you check?"

" _You_ check."

"The kilts were your idea."

"Sod it." James undid his flies and looked inside his pants. "Bugger."

"Still tartan?"

"Still sodding tartan. Check yours."

"If yours is still tartan, mine must be."

"Look anyway."

"I don't want to look!" hissed Sirius. "It's my—" But he did look. "Tartan," he sighed.

"Bugger." James buttoned his flies and kicked the wall. "Reckon we'll have to tell them the rest."

"I'm not telling them about the tree," Sirius said.

"Padfoot, we've got to."

"How we were stuck like a pair of cats, with our bits hanging down like fruit—"

"It's the only way. And we'd better do it soon because if we don't, you _know_ Evans'll finally let me into her knickers—"

" _Stop,_ Sirius begged. "Fine, we'll go back and tell them. First, though, let's come up with a version of the story that doesn't involve comparisons to fruit, all right?"

"All right. And doesn't involve being force-fed haggis. Or being hung upside down by our ankles."

"Right. We'll leave those bits out for now. And if it still doesn't work—"

"I think from now on we'd better study our history," James reluctantly admitted.

12/17/05


End file.
